They burn within me, these pebbles of song;
To spare their casting I dare not prolong.
Though fertile slopes have yet to be tilled,
These seeds of flame still beg to be spilled.
So, porcelain sea, take them and drink
These coals of my fire, this wasting of ink.
Or you, smooth belly, to you they might fall,
And there they would cling and stain your white wall.
Amidst the dark tangle of manhood and age,
They’d puddle and burn, they’d huddle and rage.
But let the soft lake be misty at dawn,
Then through her thick curtains my flame would be drawn.
Into her depths I would pour my sweet wine;
Along her banks I would weave my wild vine.
My arrow would bend the string of her bow,
My fire with hers would mingle and grow.
I’d grasp the handles of her amphora jar
And pour, pour, pour, not a drop I would bar.
The curve of her lips with tears would glisten;
her watery song, to it I would listen
And know the coolness of quivering sighs,
The fullness of dreams locked deep in her eyes.
She’d kiss me with ripples, and so I could tell
That tipping my candle made brighter her cell,
She’d want it more deeply than any could know:
In the depths of her heart, at the bottom of her soul.
And there in her garden the fire seed would fall
Beneath the mantle where nothing becomes all.
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